Stolen with Style (12 page)

“How are you?” she asked. “I just wanted to quickly make sure you know what table you're seated at.” Then, dropping her voice, she said, “Have you seen the others?”

I nodded. “The only ones I haven't seen are Trish and Tom.”

“Don't worry, they're easy to recognize. Trish because of her red hair—it's loose—and Tom because he has the most outrageous scarf tied around his head—and he's wearing a poncho over his tuxedo.”

I couldn't help but smile at the thought of that.

After a quick glance around us, she leaned close to my ear and whispered, “What about the second riddle?”

I motioned to her to follow me into a gallery that opened on our left. There we ducked behind a large bronze sculpture.

“I have it solved, I think… Now I just have to go and photograph it. The trouble is, when? The thief is going to call soon, so we're running out of time. But can I leave the dinner now? I'm afraid that'll draw attention to me and what I'm doing here. Maybe after dinner I can slip straight away? Or…” I'd just had an idea—one that would save us a lot of trouble—but I had to know something first. “Cazzie, do you trust Ira?”

“Ira? My driver?” Cazzie was clearly surprised by my question. “Yes…absolutely. Why? Do you need him for something?”

“I do—we do—if he's outside.”

Cazzie nodded, and I quickly told her that he needed to go to the LVMH Tower and photograph it.

“No problem. I'll text him right away.”

“And don't forget that he must send you the photo as soon as he's taken it.”

She texted Ira and then looked at me, her eyes exhausted. “They really want to make me run, don't they? I wonder why. I wonder
who
…”

I shrugged my shoulders. “They're angry or bitter, most likely.”

“But I don't understand it,” she continued. “Everyone in that group is at the top of their game, or well on their way there.”

“Yeah, well, for some people, that's clearly not enough. And you can't tell me the fashion business isn't cutthroat competitive, even on a good day. One day you're on top, the next you're not.”

Cazzie looked at me, eyes wide, shoulders slumped. “What else can I do? What if we don't have the diamond on Friday?”

“We will. Try to focus on the party now, and let me know when you receive the next text, okay?”

She nodded.

“Good.” Despite my reassurances to Cazzie, I was feeling more uneasy with every passing hour. After all, she'd flown me out here and was depending on me to solve the case by Friday evening to save her job and reputation—and
Chic
's—and I still had nothing solid to go on.

“The thief said they're going to send you another text at nine thirty tonight, right?” I asked as I had a new idea.

She nodded.

“Then could you do me a favor? When they text you, write back—”

Cazzie interrupted me to say that she'd tried doing that when she received the first one that morning. “But the account had already been closed.”

“Yes—because you waited until you'd texted me, right? And you probably spent longer than you think rereading it and worrying about what to do.” She nodded. “This time, answer back right away. Send a text with the photo. The thief is here, surrounded by people, so I doubt they'll get the chance to close the account immediately.”

“I'm sure you're right. But what do I write?”

“Tell them again that you absolutely need to have the diamond back in your hands by Friday night—no questions asked—or you'll have to call the police, no matter how much that will hurt your career or
Chic
's reputation. And say that they'll surely be caught—in which case they won't be doing anything in the fashion world ever again. We need to make them a bit nervous too.”

“Right,” Cazzie said with a nod. “So either they give me the diamond back by Friday, or they risk having the police go after them.”

“Exactly. And try to engage with them. Tease them or something. Tell them they're not very clever—that the riddles were totally basic fashionista knowledge, or something like that. Maybe if we can make them angry, they'll become careless with their answers and reveal more than they should.”

“Fine. I'll do it. I'll write something now, in fact. Then I can copy and paste quickly later. I'll forward you the text right after I've answered.”

***

In the large space that was designated for our dining and later dancing, the Parisian boulevard theme had morphed into a Parisian garden theme—or, more specifically, the famous rose garden at the Parc de Bagatelle in the Bois de Boulogne Parc in Paris.

Lush columns of cascading pink roses grew from the floor, and overhead thousands of twinkling lights created a starry summer sky. Blue silk lined the walls, enhancing the feeling of a garden at twilight, while the pale green tablecloths shimmered like freshly mown grass in moonlight. While waiting for everyone to take their seats, I scanned the crowd for signs of Trish or Tom or the others, but I didn't see any of them.

Finally dinner started and, considering that four courses were served and two speeches given—one by Sid Clifton, the other by Cazzie—dinner went smoothly and surprisingly rapidly. Then again, with New York Fashion Week about to kick off tomorrow morning, tonight's event wasn't expected to go too late.

Miriam sat opposite me, and the rest of our table was comprised of a
Teen
Vogue
editor (who'd started at
Chic
), a buyer for the famous NYC department store Barney's, an accessories design assistant for Ralph Lauren, a model I recognized from Paris last week, and other professionals from Prada, Dior, and Sergio Rossi.

I drifted in and out of the conversations going on around me, offering comments when I needed to, and smiling and nodding to my left and right. But something I'd heard between the first and second courses had caught my ear: “
…they were all so engrossed with finishing the top of the dress that I was able to quickly add my own little flourish to the skirt without anyone noticing, really. When they finally stood back and looked at it, they loved it. Nobody had seen a thing…
”

That snippet circled through my mind throughout the rest of dinner. Something about it seemed connected with another detail I'd heard earlier in the day. I was starting to get the buzz that meant I was on to something, but I couldn't quite remember what the comment reminded me of. I told myself that as soon as dinner was over, I'd let Miriam know I needed to get back to her apartment—where I could listen to my phone recordings in peace.

Finally Sid Clifton and his wife stood up, signaling to the rest of us that it was time to move on. Some immediately flocked to the bar set up at the far end of the room, while others followed the restroom signs, and still others headed to the rooftop terrace that Sid had also reserved for the night.

I started walking toward the dance floor, on the lookout for Cazzie to let her know my plans, but just then my phone vibrated. Taking it out, I saw a forwarded text message string from Cazzie:

Have you solved the riddle?

Cazzie had answered:

Of course I solved your riddle. Here's the photograph. Honestly, it was a bit of a joke. Should I help you come up with more challenging puzzles?

Anyway, here's my deal: I need to have the diamond back in my hands by 6 p.m. Friday evening—no questions asked—or I'll have to involve the police.

I texted her saying,
Well done
. Now we just had to wait for an answer.

While I was reading the texts, music started playing. A DJ flown in from London was presiding, and as soon as the first few beats exploded over the speakers, the dance floor was full. I waved at Ellie as I passed her. A vision of shimmering blond and blue, she was clearly enjoying herself—and she wasn't short of admirers, I noted.

But then, just as I was stepping away from the dance floor, someone grabbed my hand from behind.

“Hey—” I said, turning and trying to pull my hand back. Whoever he was, he was strong—and he was ignoring me. All I could see of him was the back of his tuxedo as he pulled me into the dancing crowd. He turned to face me, and taking both my hands, he placed them on his shoulders. Next I felt his hands quickly slide down my sides until they reached my waist and cinched it.

Then he leaned into me and whispered, “This is much better than crawling around on the floor trying to talk.”

It was Sebastian.

“Well, it didn't look like you were having trouble talking to other people when you were
standing
,” I said as I tried to pull away from him. “And by the way,” I asked, “how did you go from magazine vendor to pretend guest?”

“I have my methods, Sherlock.”

“It's still Holmes to you,” I said as I tried maneuvering my way off the dance floor. But Sebastian kept moving around me, effectively corralling me with his dancing. Annoyingly, everyone around us thought we were having the time of our lives. The
Teen
Vogue
editor who'd been at my dinner table danced past at that moment and gave me a thumbs-up.

I waited for Sebastian to make his next move, and as he did, I quickly slid away—right into the path of someone else. It was almost as if he'd been waiting for me.

“Perfect timing,” he said as I flew into his arms.

The masked dancer slipped a hand around my waist and moved me away from Sebastian. It wasn't until he leaned close to me that I realized it was Brandon.

“I was hoping to sneak some time alone with you before leaving, which unfortunately I have to do in a few minutes,” he said. “We have an early start tomorrow. It
did
take me a while to find you.” He smiled. “Anyway, is there any chance I can convince you to leave the dance floor for a quick drink?”

“Actually, Brandon,” I said, “I think that's a great idea.” I noticed Misty watching us, anger suffusing her features, but she turned away when I caught her eye.

“Who were you dancing with?” Brandon asked as we made our way toward the drinks bar set up in the entrance hall. I could hear the music behind us, and the smell of cigarette smoke blew in on the breeze every time the large front doors opened. “The two of you were dancing quite…athletically.” I couldn't tell whether he meant that ironically or not.

“That was…a friend.”

Right at that moment my phone vibrated again. I took it out of my clutch and saw it was Cazzie. She'd received an answer from the thief!

“Brandon,” I said, “I'm really, really sorry, but I have to go. It has to do with work. I have to give an answer right now, and it could take a while.”

“Work?
Now?
” He raised his eyebrows in mock alarm.

“Yes, it's about a fitting for early tomorrow. Like I said this morning, my schedule is packed…”

“I haven't forgotten anything you said.” He leaned toward my ear as he spoke, his shoulder brushing against mine.

Great. He was flirting. I took a breath and said, “I'm sorry, Brandon. Maybe I could take a rain check on the drink? I really have—”

“Right, you have to go. Will you be doing the Jared Moor show tomorrow?”

I nodded.

“Then I'll see you there.”

“That would be great,” I said as I turned to leave.

“You're different from most models—in a good way,” he said suddenly. “You're at the biggest bash of New York Fashion Week, and yet I feel your mind is somewhere else entirely.”

I shrugged my shoulders and smiled. He stood watching me as I backed away. Despite the relaxed-looking pose he struck—he had his hands in his pockets and his legs firmly apart—his eyes were intense. I gave him a last smile and quick wave before turning and reading the thief's answer:

I'm glad you liked my riddles because tomorrow I'll send you another—and I'll give you less time to solve it. As for your treasure, I'll be the one who decides when you see it. Don't try to outwit me—I have the upper hand now.

I slipped my phone in my bag and pushed my way through the crowds to find Cazzie.

She was looking for me. We bumped into each other outside one of the sculpture galleries, and without a word—just a nod of the head—we headed toward the roof terrace.

“The thief is playing tough. They don't seem scared at all.”

“Well, they will be eventually. Anyway, forward the next riddle as soon as you have it. And keep trying to get the thief talking.”

Cazzie nodded, then stretched and took a deep breath. “I have to get back to the party. Do you mind if I leave you?”

“No, you go ahead. I'll have my phone by my side at all times.”

It was cool up on the terrace, but the view was amazing. Across Central Park, the Manhattan skyline twinkled like the Milky Way—and it soothed me to feel the fresh air ruffle my hair and graze my face.

But after a couple of minutes, I turned to go back in and find Miriam so I could let her know I was ready to leave. I had to get back to my bedroom and listen to my recordings. The snippet of conversation that had jogged my memory at dinner was still replaying in my mind.

As I wandered through the museum, however, the hair on my neck went up like it had on the street after my casting at Jared Moor's. Out of the corner of my eye, I could have sworn I saw something move quickly behind me, but when I turned back to look, I saw nothing. Was I being paranoid?

I walked more briskly but continued to sense someone behind me. I was sure I was being followed—and the frustration of not having gotten anywhere with this case was making me feel reckless. I decided to turn the tables and follow them.

I slowly moved forward a few more steps, letting several party guests walk past me, then suddenly turned. I saw a flash of shadow as my stalker dodged into a gallery. I quickly followed and entered the same gallery, but it was empty. Glancing around, I noticed that behind a sculpture in the far corner was an entrance into another room. I ran toward it, and as I crossed into the new, larger space, I again saw the flash of shadow as it disappeared around another corner.